There's No Business, or Career Transition for Roger

Every day, three times a day, Rick or I let the dogs out.  And every day, three times a day, they finish their business and run back to the back door.  If I'm not standing there waiting for them they beg to be let in by scratching at the door.

That is the sound of my career.

Scratch scratch scratch.

So here I am, late thirties, tired of scratching at the back door.  Tired of begging.   I haven't worked in two years.  And the realization has set in that even if I do miraculously scrub off whatever pheromone I emit at auditions that repels people and book another gig, it is unlikely that jobs will keep coming in a way that supports me financially.  I've never made a life decision based on money.  And I've never regretted it.  But not long ago I woke up to realize that I had neither money nor career.  I woke up to realize that I was one of the many, not one of the few.   

I don't feel that I've arrived at a crossroads as much as at a roadblock.  I want to do what I want to do.  But I'm also fond of living a somewhat comfortable life.  And my priorities have changed.  Even now, after two long years, I'd rather be home with my husband than sleeping alone somewhere else doing mediocre work that is uninteresting to me.  So now what?  My work has dried up, but I haven't.  Where do I go now?  What do I do?

I would love to write.  But moving from theatre to writing in search of stability seems - well - at best, counterintuitive.  At worst, utterly moronic.  

I have in me a sense of anger and activism that I have never experienced before; a rage and passion that could easily take the place of what I have been forced to leave behind.  Activism.  Another secure and financially rewarding profession.   

So here I am.  Searching.  Looking.  Figuring out my next step.  Trying to find a fire for all this fuel.  A valve for all this boiling lava.  

I have a lot to say.  But last night, after most of this was written, the questions began, the judges entered the room and I chickened out.  "You don't know how to create a blog.  The templates are ugly and no one will want to look at it.  You need to brand yourself so you're identifiable before you do anything.  You don't know how to add pictures or a link.  You have nothing of interest or importance to say.  Who are you and why will anyone care what you have to say?  Won't people think this is exhibitionistic?  What if you make a fool of yourself?  Where exactly do you expect this to lead - a movie deal?"

I thought about all of those things and more today and I came to this conclusion:

Fuck it.

Geronimo!!!